Meanwhile Back on the Farm
by The Cocky Undead
Summary: Clint takes a vacation at his farm and things aren't super relaxing when a Casual Millionaire from Texas comes around looking to buy Clint's farm by whatever means necessary


**[Meanwhile Back on the Farm]**

 **Present.**

"Aw, no," Clint moaned, swinging gently from his tied wrists.

Why did it have to be him? It was _always_ him. He was stuck in some fucked up cycle of violence and pain. It seemed like every time he went on some mission for SHIELD he would get injured in some capacity and he knew that capture and torture were pretty much in the job description of being a spy, but that didn't mean that Clint had to like it.

Honestly, though, when you got past the part of him being knocked out and dragged into some random barn and then tied up by the wrists, this wasn't the worst situation Clint had ever been in. Sure, it wasn't ideal, but it wasn't the _worst_. Clint could count on one hand the times that he had been captured and tortured to the point that he was sure that he had been about to break (he never had, but he had been close). This right here was kid's play compared to that.

His wrists were starting to chafe against the thick ropes, and his shoulders were protesting this treatment, but he had yet to be shown any serious torture. Clint was happy for that, but he was also severely disappointed in these men. They had shown incentive when they had shown up at his house, but so far everything else had been absolute garbage, causing Clint to feel somewhat embarrassed for them. Honestly, didn't they know how to properly do this? If he wasn't the object of their interest, he would have been giving them pointers, but instead he was standing on his toes waiting for them to do something.

As if they could read his mind, Clint was given a series of blow to his head and torso. The head blows sucked, because hey that's his head and _damnit_ that hurts, but the ones to his body hurt more because Clint was pretty sure that they had cracked his ribs with their thick, meaty hands.

But hey, stuff was happening. They were learning how to properly torture their guest, so good on them.

"C'mon, baby," Clint said, baring his bloody teeth at the men. "Hit me with your best shot."

* * *

 **Two Days Before.**

Clint hadn't told anyone that he was taking a few weeks leave—it was none of their damn business what he did with his free time and he wasn't going to spend another minute "relaxing" with the rest of the Avengers at Tony's Tower because it wasn't relaxing; it was stressful having such a strong willed group of people in one place.

All the members of the Avengers actually had their own houses or apartments, but immediately following the New York Incident Tony had fixed up his Tower and invited the team to stay for an unknown number of days.

Clint had originally declined, but then Natasha had threatened bodily harm if he didn't come with her, so he had reluctantly followed her to the Tower. Partly because he wanted to be a good friend for Natasha and also because he was fond of his limbs and didn't really want to lose one.

That had been four months ago, and despite the several missions they had carried out as a team that got him out of the Tower, Clint had wished that he had just taken the bodily harm from Natasha instead of spending time in the Tower with everyone else.

He was losing his mind.

Clint had taken to crawling through the vents, which he actually enjoyed, but as Natasha pointed out he was literally crawling up the walls. He had taken her comment to heart and decided that screw the rest of the team; he was taking his much deserved vacation. And no one else was invited. Except maybe Natasha.

Plus, the rest of the team were starting to catch on to the fact that when they couldn't find Hawkeye he was most likely skulking through the vents. He didn't know who started it, but the team had started banging on the lids of the vents, calling for him whenever they wanted him.

Whenever that happened Clint always swore at them as he hustled his way out of the vents, threats of death echoing to the team member. Tony, in particular, thought that was hilarious and he didn't seem to believe that Barton would-and could-actually carry out his threats.

So far, Clint had been known as the calm one of the group, but honestly they didn't know him that well. Other than Natasha. She knew him and she probably knew where he was going, but Clint didn't care if she knew; she was his friend and the only member of the team that Clint was truly comfortable with.

But even Clint hadn't told her that he was still struggling with the fallout of the Battle of New York. That whole situation had been a shitshow from the start and Clint hadn't exactly been a passive participant in the Loki incident. Despite all that, the team had somewhat accepted him, but they didn't know him, and he didn't know them.

With unreasonable anger brimming just under the surface, Clint decided that he needed a proper vacation before he took someone's head off with his bow string.

Clint had packed a duffel and left the Tower in the middle of the night, going out a window and grappling his way down the side of the Tower. He stopped at his shitty apartment to pick up Lucky and to leave a note for Kate before taking one of SHIELDs Quinjets to fly himself away from New York to the Midwest.

Iowa welcomed him with open arms and for the first time in a long time Clint had felt himself relax a little at the sight of his farm.

It honestly wasn't much of a farm; Clint didn't have the time to spend on animals or gardening, but it was _his_ and that was what mattered.

The people that inhabited the small town knew very little about that "Barton fellow." They knew that he kept to himself and didn't cause trouble so they left him alone. He got the occasional nosey parker who would make the trip down his half mile driveway to try and sell him something or to give one form or another of baked goods.

Clint always sent the first packing and gladly accepted the second.

But other than that, Clint was alone on twenty acre farm that he had bought after his first few years with SHIELD. He knew that Fury knew when he escaped to the Farm, but for some reason Fury never mentioned it and it was an unspoken agreement between the two that when Clint had a particularly hard mission he would go to his farm and no one would bother him for a couple of weeks, unless something really bad was happening and Clint was needed. So far that had only happened once, and Fury had sent Natasha to come and collect him, so his Farm's location wasn't known by anyone except Fury and Natasha. And Lucky, but that didn't really count because the dog didn't talk (at least not in any of the many languages that Clint spoke).

The first night away from the Avengers was pure bliss. Clint cooked what he wanted to cook, and didn't have to share with anyone but Lucky and that was okay because Clint was more willing to give the dog some of his food rather than Tony, who always said that he just wanted to taste it but ended up taking most of it.

After dinner, Clint kicked back with a beer and a one of the dusty novels that he had put into the shelves in his living room back when he had first bought the place. It was nice, and Clint had no problem falling asleep that night.

* * *

 **Present.**

So this was bad. No, okay, he's had worse, but this wasn't great either. Clint eyed the two goons from one puffy eye; they were standing in the corner of the barn, talking in low voices, leaving him alone for the moment.

They had really stepped up their game. Thinking back on it, his comment about hitting him with their best shot probably wasn't the smartest; it really only made them annoyed and they took that annoyance out on his face.

Clint prodded at his teeth with his tongue; they felt like they were loose, but were firm under his tongue. For that, Clint was grateful. It was such a pain in his ass whenever he had teeth knocked out.

He focused back on the goons, feeling a moment of disgust at himself for letting himself get jumped by them and then taken out to his barn. Honestly, how humiliating was this? Not only was he, a seasoned and experienced spy, taken down by two low-level thugs, but he was also being beat up by the thuds in his own barn.

But if Clint overlooked that detail, he had to hand it to the goons. They were making a valiant effort to beat him into submission, but again Clint had been through worse.

The thick ropes were digging into Clint's wrists as they held him up in a standing position. It was difficult to breath with his broken ribs and his arms over his head, but Clint was making the most of it, taking slow and even breaths.

"Hey," Goon One called out from the corner. He turned to face Clint, arms crossed over his chest. The tattoos on his forearms rippled and Clint squinted, trying to figure out what they actually said; he had been trying all night and he couldn't manage to get a clear image of the black marks. It was really annoying and was seriously bugging him.

"You ready to make a deal yet?"

Clint pulled his gaze from the tattoos to Goon One. "I already told you _and_ your boss I'm not going to sell. That hasn't changed."

Goon One's face hardened and he stalked forward, bloodied fist raised.

"Look, man, this is the only place I have to get away from my co-workers; you have no idea how nosy they are," Clint said, giving the fist an annoyed look. "It's an ideal location, and I've got it set up just how I like it."

Goon One ignored this, smashing his fist into Clint's cheek. Clint let his head move with the motion of the fist, causing the impact of Goon One's knuckles to be minimal at best. He straightened a moment later, cheek throbbing slightly.

"C'mon, man, you don't realize how much of a pain in my ass it's gonna be to find a new vacation home."

Goon One frowned, exchanging a confused look with Goon Two, who had moved over to join his partner near Clint.

"Vacation home? This dump?"

Clint sniffed, offended. "I'm sorry it doesn't live up to your standards, but I like to get out of the city sometimes and this farm is all I need."

The two goons gave each other looks before both turning to Clint again.

"Iowa freak."

"I mean, I guess I could be considered a freak, but an Iowa freak? C'mon, guys—," Clint was cut off as the goon's fists rained down on him again.

* * *

 **One Day Before.**

There was a loud banging at his door. Or at least, that's what Clint thought was happening. There was no other explanation for his rude awakening.

Clint was sprawled out on his bed, arms and legs tangled into his sheets and jammed under pillows. Lucky was somewhere in the mix, but Clint didn't really care about the furball sharing his bed, even though Lucky would leave tufts of fur everywhere and that was kinda a pain, but he had other things to worry about at the moment, like some idiot knocking on his door way too early in the morning.

Blearily, Clint peeled his cheek off his pillow, blinking at his night stand clock. It was almost 9am, and Clint had run on less sleep than what he currently had, but he was on vacation dammit; he deserved more sleep.

Clint let his head drop back to the pillow, deciding that he was going to ignore whoever was at the door. If they really cared, they could come back at a decent hour.

But the knocking didn't stop, and Clint could sleep through gunfire and shells being dropped around him, but he couldn't handle someone's knuckles rapping at his wooden front door. Each knock was like a nail being pounded into his head, consistent and annoying.

At his feet, Lucky whined gently.

Clint lifted his head again, twisting around so that he was on his back facing the ceiling. He peered down to Lucky, frowning.

Lucky didn't really say anything back because he was a dog, but he definitely looked as annoyed as Clint felt.

Another knock.

"Seriously?" Clint mumbled, kicking the covers off his legs, in the process kicking Lucky off the bed too.

The dog landed with a thump and a yelp.

"Oops," Clint said, sitting up and looking over the edge of his bed. "Sorry, buddy."

Lucky gave him a one-eyed look. Clint gave him an apologetic smile back. With a huff, the dog seemed to decide to forgive him and silently padded from the room.

Following Lucky's lead, Clint stood up and not bothering to do much other than rake a hand through his sandy hair, Clint followed his dog downstairs.

The floor was cold against Clint's feet, adding to his growing annoyance, but Clint tried to ignore it as he walked to the front door and wrenched it open.

"Yeah?" It was rude, but frankly, Clint didn't care.

Outside there were three men standing on his porch. Two of them, who were clearly bodyguards of some sort, stood on either side of a man who oozed 'boss.' The 'boss' wore a suit, with a cowboy hat placed jauntly on his head. His smile was wide with square, white teeth that seemed to take up more of his mouth than seemed possible. Clint gave the man's teeth a concerned look.

"Hello," the man said, still smiling widely.

Clint's eyes were stuck to the man's teeth, watching as the man's lips opened and closed over them.

At his feet, Lucky gave a low growl, and Clint was deeply regretting getting up from his warm bed to answer the door.

"Sorry?" Clint finally said, tearing his eyes away from the man's teeth to his eyes.

The man's eyes shuttered briefly, but his smile didn't falter. "I said hello, son. I know that I'm not from around here—," his southern accent gave an unnecessary twang to further illustrate that point—, "but down South, when we say hello we usually get an answer."

Clint blinked. "Uh, hi."

"Good to meet, you, son, I'm Gordon Anderson from Anderson and Sons. My family owns several casinos and restaurants all over America." He paused here, giving Clint a significant look. "God Bless America."

Clint blinked again, and a brief, but awkward second passed with both men staring at each other.

"We're looking to expand here in your little town," Gordon continued, moving past the moment of awkward silence. "Your land is an ideal location for our casino. We are prepared to offer you a large sum if you're willing to sell. We'd really like to get started as soon as possible, son. I'm talking end of the week soon. So, here's what I'll do. I'll give you our offer and you tell me if you need that price to go up. Whatda say?" His smile widened further, which Clint didn't think was possible.

Silence fell over them again with Clint still staring at Gordon's teeth, frowning slightly. Gordon stared back at him with his cowboy hat, while Clint sported what he liked to call 'natural and sexy hair' but was really just bedhead with different tufts of hair sticking up.

"Oh," Clint said slowly, drawing out the word. His eyes flicked from Gordon's teeth back to his eyes. "Uh, no thanks."

Gordon's eyes widened and his mouth snapped shut over his teeth. A moment later his mouth opened again to protest Clint's answer, but Clint was already shutting the door between them.

"Sorry, Gordon, I just don't want to sell," Clint called through his door, and without a backward glance, Clint padded away with Lucky on his heels, still thinking about Gordon's teeth.

Obviously, Clint could have handled the situation with Gordon Anderson better. In fact, if he had, they might have not tried to beat him into submission, but as it was, Clint spent the rest of his morning making breakfast and vaguely wondering how Gordon's mouth fit all his teeth.

* * *

Clint was finishing up lunch when his cell started to ring, playing Iggy Azalea's Black Widow song, signaling an incoming call from Natasha. (Clint had thought it was hilarious when he first made the song her ringtone; Nat was less amused).

Wiping his hands on a towel, Clint leaned over the counter and plucked his phone up.

"Hey, Nat," he said, propping the phone between his shoulder and ear and getting up from the stool that sat by the counter in the kitchen to put his dishes in the sink, before moving back to the stool, and plopping down on it.

"Clint," Natasha's smooth tones came through the phone, and despite wanting to get away from everyone, Clint was glad to hear her voice. "How are you?"

"I'm good," Clint said. "You know me, I'm living it up over here."

Natasha made a humming sound. "The boys have been asking me where you went all day after they realized you were gone. I told them you were on a mission for Fury, but Tony actually called to see what type of mission, which is when he realized I was lying, so now he doesn't really trust anything I'm saying concerning you. They seem to think that you've gone missing and are in danger."

Clint propped an elbow onto the counter, leaning his chin against it. "Uh-huh."

It was almost sweet that Tony and the others were worried about his wellbeing, but Clint figured Tony's concern was more just wanting to be in the loop of everyone's lives than actual concern.

"I told them I'd give you a call," Natasha continued. There was a muffled sound and then her voice came again, more echoy this time. "I've put you on speaker, Clint."

"Clint?" Tony's voice swam into Clint's ear. "Where are you, buddy?"

"You know, around," Clint said, waving a hand vaguely even though he knew they couldn't see it.

"But, like, where exactly?"

"Around," Clint repeated.

"We just wanted to make sure you were okay," this time it was Steve. Clint could actually believed his concern was more genuine than Tony's and felt a little more loved.

"No need to worry," Clint said. "I'm good. Just needed a little break from everything, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," Steve said slowly. And abruptly, Clint realized that out of almost all of them, Steve probably knew the best of what Clint had been feeling. Steve's life had been turned upside down ever since waking up from the ice. His mission with the rest of the Avengers had only been weeks after his waking; it would have been a hard adjustment for anyone, not just a super soldier from the 40's.

"Clinton!" Thor's voice boomed through, and Clint winced, pulling the phone a little away from his ear. "It's good to hear your voice, my friend."

"Yeah, good to hear you too," Clint said. "What are you doing at the Tower? I thought you were in Asgard for a while more yet?"

"Well, I had some time off, you might say, and I thought I'd come visit all my friends down here. I must admit I was a little alarmed that you weren't here."

Clint blinked; he didn't know any of them cared so much. Without meaning to, Clint felt a little touched and then a little guilty for ditching all of them.

"Don't worry, big guy, I'm doing fine. Just needed some time away."

"Good," Bruce this time. "Everyone needs a little time away—TONY!"

There was muffled cursing in the background and then it sounded like the phone dropped.

Clint waited patiently for them to get sorted, giving Lucky a rub with his barefoot.

"Clint?" Natasha again, not on speaker anymore. "You still there?"

"Yep."

"Sorry about that, Tony was acting inappropriate again."

"So, he was trying to trace my phone?" Clint asked.

Natasha let out a small laugh. "Yeah."

Clint snorted. " _He_ made my phone. I'm not even sure he could track it when it's on stealth mode. I bet he's regretting that now, huh?"

"A little bit, yeah."

There was a pause.

"I have missed you," Natasha said, switching to Russian.

Clint didn't bother pointing out it had only been a day and a half since he had been gone, and they had been apart for longer on separate missions. "Me too," he said instead. "I'll come home soon."

"Good," Natasha said, switching back to English. "I'll be expecting you within a few weeks. If not, then I'm coming to get you myself."

"Wouldn't expect anything else," Clint said, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Wait, do you know where he is?" Tony demanded in the background. "You knew this whole time? Where—." The phone went dead, cutting off the rest of Tony's words.

Clint slipped his phone away from his ear, placing it back down to the counter. He felt a pang of longing; he missed them all, something he didn't think was possible.

"I'm such a wuss," Clint said to Lucky. "It's been two damn days and I'm gettin' all weepy over my teammates."

Lucky, predictably, didn't say anything back.

* * *

Clint was embarrassed to say that he didn't see the men coming. He had been enjoying his evening with Lucky, falling asleep in his living room with his barefeet feet propped up on the coffee table when they burst in.

The two men were a lot bigger than he was, which shouldn't have been a problem, only they played a lot dirtier than Clint did and before he could do much more than give Goon One a bloody nose and pop Goon Two's shoulder out of its socket, they had Lucky with a gun to the poor furball's head.

Clint swore at them, but allowed them to inject him with something that made him go weak and limp; Clint figured that he'd be able to get out of whatever the hell they were planning on doing with him instead of taking the chance that Lucky might get hurt.

* * *

 **Present.**

"Listen, man, our boss is gettin' impatient," Goon One said, hands propped against his knees and he bent over trying to get his breath. "All you're getting is pain, and it's not going to stop until you agree to our demands."

"'Agree to our demands?' What is this, a thug movie?" Clint garbled out between his thick tongue and the blood in his mouth. He spat out a glob of the coagulated blood, watching as it landed on the straw covered floor. "I mean, I really do admire you boys. You're making an effort here, you really are." His voice was clearer now that he had gotten rid of some of the blood from his mouth. "But it's just not going to work. I don't want to sell, and I'm much more prepared than you are for the beating you're giving me. Plus, you don't have anything I'd roll over for."

The Goons exchanged a look.

"You went all nice for us when we threatened your mutt," Goon One said. He jerked his chin at his large friend. "Go get the dog."

"Idiots," Clint said, shaking his head. "You left the door open when you dragged me out here. Lucky is long gone by now, trust me. Good try, though. See _that's_ what I'm talking about. You're a forward thinker, my friend, you'll go far in this life."

"Stop talking!" Good Two snapped, jerking forward and snapping a fist into Clint's stomach.

Clint doubled over as much as he was able to, breath leaving his body as his already cracked ribs received more abuse. His legs apparently decided to stop working and had gone limp, causing his wrists to scream in protest as his full weight fell onto them.

"Ooouch," Clint moaned, struggling back to his feet.

"Felt one, didn't you?" Goon Two said, smirking smugly at Clint.

"Listen, asshole," Clint said, temper finally starting to ignite. "I'm an Avenger, and I really don't want to have to—"

"Which one?" Goon One interrupted, squinting at Clint in the dim light. He cocked his head to the side, trying to get a better look at Clint.

"Which one?" Clint sputtered. "For real?"

"Not the one with the cape," Goon Two said, eyeing Clint's ripped flannel shirt and jeans.

"He's definitely not Captain America," Goon One added, striding forward and tilting Clint's chin to the side. "He's got a baby face, not the face of America's hero."

"Seriously?" Clint muttered, jerking his chin out of the Goon's grasp. "You boys need to watch the news more."

The two Goons stepped back, both appraising Clint with crossed arms.

"If you're really an Avenger then Gordon needs to know," Goon One finally said after a long moment of staring at Clint.

"Go ahead," Clint muttered, put out with how his big reveal had gone. "Call your boss. It's not like I'm going anywhere."

That wasn't technically true. Contrary to popular belief, Clint didn't actually like getting used as a punching bag, and he had just about reached his limit with being these two idiots' bag.

So while the rope was thick and tied in a complicated looking knot, Clint's wrists were bloody from his constant falling and rubbing against the rope, making them slippery. It wasn't Clint's favorite way to escape, but he didn't have any of his normal tools on him and frankly it was better than nothing.

At this point, he was almost loose, just a few more inches and his hands would be free, and then he was going to kick the Goons' asses, something that he was really looking forward to.

"Hey." A hand slapped against his cheek, jarring him from his apparent doze. "Our boss was close by. He'll be here in a minute."

"Great," Clint said. "Can't wait to meet him."

"You already met him," Goon One said.

Clint licked his throbbing lips, squinting at them. They stared back at him.

"Oh!" Clint finally said. "That's right. Southern accent, huge and unnecessary hat. I remember. I didn't remember, but then I did."

That earned him another jab to the stomach, which wasn't so awesome, but Clint was finally able to read the tattoo on Goon One's arm.

He raised incredulous eyes to the Goon, who gave him a wary glare back, unsure what new nonsense Clint was about to spout.

"Thug Life?" Clint demanded, jerking his chin at the black tattoo. "You got Thug Life tattooed on your arm?"

The Goons followed his gaze down to the black ink. Goon one covered the tattoo protectively with one hand, rubbing it while he sent a renewed glare at Clint. "Yeah, so?"

"So, it's mighty stupid, my friend," Clint said, laughing. "Thug Life? It's like you feel the need to let everyone know that you've living it up as a thug or something. Honestly, you couldn't have been a little more, I don't know, creative?"

It was almost worth the punch he took to his head to make Goon One feel like an idiot and for some reason Clint was a whole lot more satisfied with the situation even though he wasn't even free yet.

The two Goons backed off after that, standing near the barn doors, waiting for their boss to pull up the gravel driveway.

Clint kept working on his hands, knowing that the best time to get loose would be when Gordon showed up.

The crunch of gravel outside the barn door and the brief glimpse of headlights was all the warning Clint had that his window of opportunity was running out.

"Come on," Clint muttered, feeling the burn of his wrists as he tugged at them as inconspicuously as possible. Warm blood was starting to trickle down from his hands, making trails across his skin to his rolled up flannel shirt at his elbows.

"Boys," Gordon's southern accent rang out, filling the barn and making Clint wince.

His cowboy boots tapped against the wood boards as he walked past the Goons to where Clint hung from the hook in the middle of the bottom level. He eyed Clint's bloody appearance, lip curling in disgust.

"Y'all couldn't have, I don't know, been more discreet?" he asked over his shoulder. "I want him to sell, not to die."

Goon One strode forward. "He's a tough son of a bitch. He wouldn't sell, and he—"

"He kept taunting us," Goon Two put in, giving Clint a dark look. Clint smiled back. "He was asking for it."

"It's true," Clint said, nodding sagely. "I was."

They all looked at him, blinking. The Goons with tired annoyance and Gordon with surprise.

Gordon turned back to fully face Clint again. "Why won't you just sell, boy? You can buy ten houses like this one with the money I'm willing to give you."

"Yeah, but I like this location," Clint said. "And it's the only place that I know the others won't find me."

"The others?" Gordon asked, arching an eyebrow.

"The Avengers," Clint said, rocking forward on his feet.

"See, sir," Goon One said, popping over to Gordon's side. "He claims to be an Avenger, but I don't recognize him."

"If you're an Avenger," Gordon said, eyes glued to Clint's face with renewed interest, "and you bought this place so that your friends couldn't find you, then you sorta just screwed yourself. No one is coming to save you." He let out a laugh.

"First off all," Clint said, straightening, "how dare you assume that I need saving. Second of all, if you kill me, they'll come for you. It doesn't matter that they don't know about this place, they'll be able to find it and they'll make sure you pay." Clint paused to give Gordon and the Goons a moment to process that. "And third of all, I don't need them to save me."

"You already said that," Goon Two said helpfully from Gordon's side.

"I know," Clint said, looking at him. "But I figured I'd throw it out there again. Especially since I'm free now."

There was a brief moment of confusion for the Goons and their boss and then Clint burst out of his ropes, all blood and ripped skin, but so worth it to see the looks of incredulous surprise on their faces.

Goon Two went down like a sack of potatoes with a precise jab to his throat. He writhed on the ground, hands grasping his neck as he fought to breathe. Clint gave him another kick for good measure as he went for Goon One.

Goon One was a little harder; he took out his gun from his shoulder hostler because he's a dirty cheater, but that was no matter either.

Clint twisted the pistol from his grip, breaking his fingers as he did so. While Goon One howled, Clint dismantled the pistol, tossing it aside. He then landed two quick punches to Goon One's already bloody nose, breaking it cleanly this time.

Goon One's hands went up to his nose, blood pouring through his fingers. He glared at Clint through streaming eyes, and it almost seemed like he might have made an attempt to take Clint down, but then Clint threw out a leg, kicking him square on the chest.

Goon One stumbled backwards, hands not sure whether or not to go to his nose or his chest. His feet caught on something and he landed on his ass with a thump.

Clint strode forward, broken lips forming a circle as he attempted to whistle; he had always wanted to whistle a tune while he beat the shit out of someone, but the most he was able to achieve was an off-key note, so he stopped that pretty quick.

"You psycho!" Goon One managed before Clint bitch slapped him all the way to the ground.

"Yes!" Clint said, throwing a fist into the air as he stared down at the unconscious Goon. "Yessir, that felt good. Clint two points, assholes…one. I'll give them one point because they did get me out here and stuff." He turned on his heel, wincing as his barefoot caught a sliver on the barn floor. "Damn." He hopped on one foot for a brief moment as his clumsy fingers pulled the sliver out of his foot.

He then turned his attention to Gordon. The man was standing where Clint had left him, near the hook that Clint had recently been occupying. Clint had expected an open mouth of surprise or maybe a plea for mercy, but neither was given.

Instead, a large, silver .45 sig sauer was pointed at his face, and Gordon was sneering at him from behind it.

"You should have kept the pistol, boy," Gordon said, Southern accent annoyingly strong. "I've got you dead to rights."

Clint raised his hands slightly, grimacing at his bloody and raw wrists before turning his full attention to the man and the pistol. "Okay, yeah, so you've got a gun. I don't know why I didn't think of that. I'm seriously off my game today. It's this house, man, it's brings my guard down."

"I'm from Texas, boy, we've all got guns," Gorgon scoffed at him, hand tightening around his silver piece. "What are you going to do now?"

"So, here's the situation," Clint said, taking a slow step forward and letting his hands drop back to his sides. "You've got a gun. I don't. You kill me, my friends come to kill you. You surrender, I make sure that you've given an easier sentence." Clint paused. "It's up to you, man, but take a minute to think about it."

"You said it yourself," Gordon said. "Your friends don't know you're here."

His eyes glinted in the soft light, and Clint saw the muscles in his hand jump.

"Ah, but," Clint said, holding out his hand to stall Gordon from pulling the trigger. "I might have lied a little bit about that. I have at least two friends who definitely know where I am. Okay, well, one isn't really my friend. I would like to think maybe one day we could be, but he's really not that kind of guy. Really uptight if you know what I mean. Super paranoid. Probably thinks having friends is a weakness."

"Shut up!" Gordon said, face contorting into a scowl. "Don't you ever shut up?"

"Not so much," Clint said and then sprang forward.

The .45 went off in quick secession. The flares from the gun bright and sudden in the dark barn.

* * *

 **A Week Later.**

"…and then I basically took down a Southern mob boss in my backyard," Clint said, stirring the waffle mix with a spatula. He frowned slightly. "Actually, he doesn't like to be called a mob boss. He prefers casual millionaire from Texas. Not that I asked him, but he just gave off that vibe, you know. Anyway, I did have to call Fury after I kicked his ass a little. I needed some help with all the legal stuff. If it was up to me, he'd probably be buried in my backyard instead of in jail, but, hey, who asked me, amiright. Anyway, Lucky and I had to spend another week on the farm to deal with all this and I was only just able to come back today."

Clint paused for breath, giving his friends a quick look to see if they were still listening; he had been explaining his trials and tribulations for a good 30 minutes now and Tony really only had the attention span of a fruit fly.

"Uh huh," Tony said, eyes slightly glazed. "Sure." He shook his head, focusing back on Clint. "Okay, Clint, if you don't want to tell us what you were doing on your time off, that's fine, but please don't feed us some ridiculous tale about your time on some farm."

Clint sputtered in outrage at Tony, who swiveled on his stool, jumping off. "Who's in the mood for some chess? Bruce! I know you are." He half dragged the green, but not currently green, doctor to the other side of the large room, leaving Clint with the remaining Avengers, who were sitting at the counter as Clint prepared them food.

"Ignore him, Clint," Natasha said from her stool. "He's just jealous that you didn't invite him along to your farm."

Clint tore his eyes—glare—away from Tony to his red headed friend. She was giving him a look, one that Clint knew meant he was going to have to give her more details later—something that Clint had been hoping to avoid, but if that's what she wanted, he might as well go all the way and tell them the last part of his vacation.

Before he could change his mind, Clint said, "I showed you guys my bullet wound right?"

"Bullet wound?" Steve asked, concerned.

"Bullet wound?" Natasha echoed, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Clint swallowed, realizing he might have made a mistake with the full disclosure idea, but it was too late now.

Steve leaned forward against the marble counter, raking his eyes up and down Clint's slightly flourly form. "Where were you shot? Wait, _when_ were you shot? At which part of your story?"

"The last part, Cap, it was during the last part of my story," Clint said, dropping the bowl of waffle mix to the counter and untangling himself from his apron. He lifted his white shirt, showing off the large white patch of bandages that were stuck to his side. "See." Clint jabbed a finger at the patch. "Gordon was a lousy shot." He attempted to keep his voice light, peeking up at Natasha.

She didn't look amused.

"I told you to be careful," Natasha said, voice dropping. "Not to come home with a bullet hole."

"It's just another one for the collection," Clint said, waving a hand and letting his shirt drop. He plucked up the bowl and gave it another stir.

"She's right, my friend," Thor said, voice rumbling. "You should not have tried to take on this Gordon man on your own. You should have called for our help. We would have come and then we could have, how do you say like to say? Kicked his ass together."

"Thanks, buddy, but there wasn't time," Clint said, pouring some of the mix into the waffle machine. "Besides, it all worked out." He closed the lid, listening to the hiss as the batter heated against the iron.

"But it might not next time," Natasha said.

Something in her voice made Clint look up from his waffles. He caught her green eyes with his blue ones, seeing the concern and worry glimmering underneath her anger at his stupidity. He gave her a small shrug and smile, attempting to offer her a treaty.

"You're right, Nat, I'll call you for help next time." Clint decided not to mention, again, that there hadn't really been time to call for help in between getting drugged and then pummeled by the Goons.

"We're here for you, buddy," Steve added. "We're your friends."

"Thanks, Steve," Clint said, giving the blonde man a grateful look. After the lighthearted mood Clint had been trying to paint with his story it was almost hard to read the sincerity in his friends' voices, but Clint knew that they were telling him the truth. They _were_ his friends. They were a team, the Avengers (even though no one seemed to recognize Clint), and they would always have each other's back.

"Okay," Clint said, clearing his throat. "Who wants some waffles? I got this recipe from Mrs. Wilson down the road from my place. She kept making me food and then when the town found out I took down Gordon they all started showing up with baked good and stuff; apparently he'd been hassling most of the town with his nonsense. Anyway, believe it or not, Mrs. Wilson and I hit it off; we swapped a lot of recipes—whoa, calm down with that glare, Nat, she's like 80 and she'd never replace you as my best friend."

"Did someone say waffles?" Tony's voice called over to them. "Are you finally done with them, Birdbrain?"

"No waffles for the nonbeliever," Clint called back. "But waffles for everyone else."

He exchanged a smirk with the Avengers at the counter. "Alright, friends, are you ready for this?"

 **THE END.**

* * *

A/N: I've been wanting to write a story about Clint and his farm ever since we found out that Clint owned a farm in some spoilers for AoU. I had expected great things from the farm plot in the actual movie and was super disappointed (not a fan of that movie in general and I wasn't really into Clint's secret family plot either). Anyway, this isn't quite what I wanted to do, but I think it turned out pretty alright.

Oh, also! The Casual Millionaire from Texas line is straight from an episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia (not gonna lie, that line is part of how I came up with this fic).


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